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 OW stately yon palace uplifts its proud head,86
 * Where Broadway and Barclay Street meet;

Abhorring its old-fashioned tunic of red, It shines in the lustre of chromate of lead.
 * And its doors open—into the street!

No longer it rings to the merry sleigh-bells,
 * The steeds’ gallant neighings are o’er;

Instead of the pitchfork, we meet with scalpels, And the throne of his medical majesty dwells
 * Where the horse-trough resided before.

Oh, David! how dreadful and dire was the note,
 * When Rebellion beleaguered the place,

When the bull-dog of discord unbolted his throat, And the hot Digitalis87 unbuttoned his coat,
 * And doubled his fist in your face!

Then Syncope seized thee; all wild with affright
 * The Lord Chamberlain cried “God defend ye!”

Mac88 swung his shillelah in hopes of a fight, While the brave Surgeon-General89 exclaimed in delight,
 * “Pugnatum est arte medendi.”